Not Enough
by writeeofpassage
Summary: Watson leaves, and Holmes struggles to hold himself together - and fails miserably. Holmes/Watson


_A/N: Just watched this movie, and it's AH-mazing! Loved every moment, especially the chemistry crammed Holmes/Watson moments! Is it just me or did their relationship remind anybody of the House/Wilson relationship? Anyhoodle, here is a little Holmes/Watson ficlet - it's slightly sad. Enjoy. _

_**Not Enough. **_

Watson left, pivoting softly on his heel and walking away, for the innumerable time; for the final time.

His form vanished through the doorway, and the door clicked soundlessly behind him.

Holmes stood in the empty room. The floor was littered with papers and books, but it felt barren, void of anything important, because it was. The last important thing in his life had just walked through that door, had just walked away – away from him. There was no noise, nothing except the wild wail of his writhing heart. His dark, confused eyes, stared at the closed door, tracing each inch of the solid wood with his determined gaze, searching it for some unknowable answer, some hidden explanation that could make everything clear, could set everything as it should be, as it had been.

That heart wrenching silence followed, those few moments when Holmes stared at the door expectantly, waiting for Watson to do what he expected, to come rushing back in declaring that he had made a big mistake, but he didn't. The door remained closed, and Watson did not come.

Holmes fell then, his legs crumpled beneath him and he was left curled up on the ground, slowly rocking his trembling body. He had nothing now. What was his brilliant mind worth, if he had no one to guide him in the right direction, no one to keep him in his place? What was his life worth, if he did not have someone, if he did not have Watson?

He didn't want someone, he wanted _that_ someone. That man who had just left, left without giving him a chance, a chance he so desperately wanted.

If he needed to change, if that's what it would take for him to come back, he could do that – probably. Well, for Watson he could, he _would_.

If he needed to stop experimenting on his dog – _their_ dog – he could do that too. He could stop drinking, stop being so reckless, he knew he could. If only he had said those words, said them and meant them, maybe Watson would be there still, and he would be wrapped in the man's warm arms, instead of falling to pieces on the dusty floor.

Who was he kidding? He had told Watson those things before, and he had never believed him then. He had given him plenty of chances, and each and every time, Holmes had let him down, each and every time, Holmes had failed.

That wasn't something he admitted too often, but this time, this time it was true. He hadn't made the effort, he had just always assumed that Watson would give in, and he'd be there, he would always be there.

That was his first mistake. Why would anyone stay around him? He couldn't really blame his friend, and he didn't. He placed the blame where the blame fell, just as he always did. And the blame fell where it always had, on him.

This was his fault, all his fault.

Holmes laid there, tears falling from his dark eyes, pouring down his skin and falling to the floor. They made a slight splashing noise as they pounded against the wooden flooring, and the noise of his despair echoed throughout the empty room, and his hollow heart.

It wasn't like before, he wasn't coming back.

Not this time.

Watson was gone, for good.

There were no more chances; he had run out of chances, ruined every last one with his stubbornness, his arrogance.

There was no one to blame but himself. There was nothing left. Nothing left but him.

He was alone. He was alone for good, and there was nothing he could do, no magic words he could say to make things right again.

Maybe this was how things were supposed to be. Maybe this was justice.

Holmes felt his insides scream, his lungs writhe, and his skin wriggle with desperation. His heart pounded with fear, and his cold fingers were clenched into tight, compact fists, numbly holding the last thing he had that was of any value to him. It was one of Watson's old, worn shirts. One of his favourite actually.

It wasn't much, Holmes mused, but it was something.

It was proof that Watson had existed, and when Holmes was old and grey, and still alone, he would have something to prove that once, once he had loved a man, and once, once a man had loved him.

It was also proof, that sometimes, every so often, love was just not enough.

_please review. _


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